


I Will Be There

by lostyourwar



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, multiple character deaths
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-16 14:02:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2272485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostyourwar/pseuds/lostyourwar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This world is gonna burn, burn, burn.<br/>As long as we're going down,<br/>baby, you should stick around."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_You’re still here._  

He gently dragged the tips of his fingers down the bridge of the boy’s freckled nose, tracing the light that outlined the contours of his face. Was it warm enough? Did the skin sink beneath his touch? Barely visible lashes fluttered for a moment to reveal two sparkling gems, olive green rimmed in blue. The boy blinked the sleep from his eyes and focused on the face smiling down at him. It was the type of smile he rarely saw first thing in the morning, the type that was a fucking blessing, so he reciprocated it with a relieved sigh. 

“Everybody’s good?” 

Mickey rested his hand on his firm chest, applied a little pressure to feel the faint beat of the heart beneath his flesh. “You feverish?” 

“Nope,” Ian answered easily. He sat up on the bed with a huff, reaching over quickly give Mickey a morning peck. “Everybody’s good," Mickey assured. "Iggy went to get food. He should be back soon. And... you know, Lip was bitching about us to Fiona." He climbed out from beneath the covers to finish getting dressed. They needed batteries, he thought as he shoved a boot onto his foot. They needed a functioning radio so they could find out when the next storm was coming.  “Hey, don’t worry about him,” Ian groaned, tugging the blanket over his bare arms after they'd slipped off from all the movement. It was cold as fuck again and they weren’t getting a heater anytime soon. “He’s just paranoid after… you know. Besides, I don’t want you to go.” 

_You know._ Mickey pulled a scarf out from the drawer and draped it over his shoulders. Yeah, he knew. Cremating half of his own family had been traumatic for him, and he didn’t even like them that much. Ian still couldn’t say their names without falling apart. The world wasn't the same outside the four walls of that bedroom, no matter how much they tried to pretend. It was nearly instinctual, the way he drifted across the room into his lover’s arms. Ian embraced him without hesitation, clung to the sturdy body he loved so much. It was inevitable. One of them would go first, and they both secretly hoped they wouldn’t have to endure the anguish of that loss. Mickey turned his head, crashed his lips against Ian’s, and told him he needed him without a single word. It was written with the ink of his fingers, scratching into the roots of his red curls. They fell back onto the bed, still warm from their slumber, and he began to undo the very boots he’d just gotten into when the door creaked open. 

“‘Lo?"

 Mickey sat back up off of Ian slowly, gathering his wits. It was occasionally shocking to Ian’s system, not watching his boyfriend freak out at the idea of people knowing about them. The times had changed too quickly, and now theirs was limited. There was no room for discomfort. Debbie stepped into the bedroom and took in the sight. Her brother was more than likely naked under the covers, and Mickey’s face was flushed. She liked him. She liked how he loved Ian, knew they would be safe together, and her motherly soul was comforted by the fact. His fingers deftly tied the boot back up a second time. “Mick, you told me we’d go out for batteries today. I’m ready.”

He nodded, delicately patted Ian's hand that held the covers over his abdomen, and murmured, "Don't forget to take your meds."

Mickey's voice was never that sweet for anybody other than Ian and sometimes Debbie. Mandy, too, when they had to burn their brother's body and she had wept into his arms. It was something that came from the tragedy, something that wouldn't exist if death wasn't haunting their every moment.

*****

The batteries were easy to come by when Mickey made sure to bring along his pistol. He was still a Milkovich, and the people at the local Walmart knew of his reputation. They let him take some rice and a Monopoly set Debbie asked for, too. The young redhead carried her game in one hand, reached to hold Mickey's with the other. It was slightly uncomfortable for him; he wasn't used to showing affection to people. But Debs reminded him of Ian- and not just the red hair, her sweet personality was reminiscent of the man he loved. So he squeezed her hand and said, "We're all gonna play that tonight, okay?"

Bright eyes glanced up, "Really?"

"Yeah, sure. None of us got nothing better to do. We can stop by Kev's house, too. Make it a party."

The girl bounced as she walked and let out a joyous cry. He felt for her, truly. She was thirteen and all they did was sit around the living room, listening to the radio, waiting for bad news. If they used to live before, now they only survived. They made it to the neighborhood before Debbie started trembling intensely. He bit his lip, watching her shiver, knew she wouldn't comment on it because she didn't like to be a bother to people. He couldn't very well give her his jacket, not without ending up with hypothermia and more susceptible to the rot.

So, he let go of her hand whilst shouting, "Last one to the Ball house has radio duty!"

She screamed in surprise and raced past him. It was unexpected, to say the least, when she had him beat in seconds. He pushed until his thighs burnt, wondering how she could run so swiftly with such short legs. They crashed into the fence outside Kev and V's house with breathless laughter, Debbie raising a limp hand, gasping, "I won!"

He wrapped an arm around her shoulder, shaking his head, "I said to the house!" It was as if she knew he'd say it, though, because she shoved him away and sprinted up to the house. Huffing laughter escaped him as he walked to her, calling, "Yo, Kev!"

Debbie poked at his arm, and he turned to give her a look when she sing-songed, "You _looost_. I _wooon_."

"Yeah, okay," he responded with a roll of his eyes, pushing her head away without any force. She cackled even more at the gesture.

Finally, after a few minutes, the sound of the door unlocking pulled their attention away from Debbie's taunting. Mickey was talking before the door opened, "Hey, man. How 'bout a rice party over at the Galla..." His sentence drifted off into silence when he saw the exhausted expression on the other man's face. Dark circles, hollow cheekbones, greasy hair, firm skin. Debbie breathed, "Oh, no," and raced past them inside.

Mickey followed her, unsure of what to say to Kevin. They found Veronica in the bedroom, undressed and empty-faced. He choked on the odor, but Debbie didn't seem to notice. The woman's neck was covered in dark, rotting flesh, a mix of black and red and green, torn and sore. It trickled down her left breast to her ribs. She blinked up at the child, but when she opened her mouth to speak, drool spilled out and she made no sound.

He was at the door, holding his breath, when he felt Kevin's body heat behind him. It was the only thing that told him Kevin was there; he, too, made no sound. "She's got enough morphine in her to kill a fucking whale," was all the man said. They knew the rest. It was the only thing that would numb the pain of rotting alive. It was the only way for him to sleep, without waking up to desperate screams in the middle of the night. Mickey's vision blurred when he saw the way the covers were unmade beneath her. How had the smell not bothered Kevin?

"Debs," Mickey mumbled when her small shoulders shook silently. She cradled Veronica's hand in hers with the gentlest touch, as the skin would likely fall apart if she was too rough. "We need to let Fiona know."

She whispered something, but it wasn't meant for their ears. Mickey finally stepped back out of the room, eyed Kevin once more. "I can do it for you."

The man stared at him blankly, as if he hadn't heard what he said. Clearly, she was still alive because he couldn't do it, but that was no way to live. Mickey had done it for Carl and Colin, and the scars it left him were still fresh. But he'd do it for his friend.

Debbie eventually left the woman's side, and took a tight hold of Mickey's hand again. She seemed relieved to touch stiff skin again. "Kev, we can make it really nice."

He nodded, met their eyes but didn't look at them, led them back to the front door. Mickey glanced down at the bag of rice he held. It wasn't going to save his wife- was probably a stupid gesture- but it was the only thing he could think to offer in that moment. "Let me leave you some rice. You gotta eat." Kevin simply shook his head, and closed the door with no explanation. He needed to let Mickey euthanize her, but that was easier said than done. Veronica may have had the spot rot, but both of them were dying.

*****   
_If we're gonna die, bury us alive_  
  
 _If they're searching for us they'll find us side by side_  
  
 _That's my, that's my man_  
*****

Debbie was silent on their short trek over to the house. He wanted so badly to tell her something, anything. Her laughing face was burnt into the back of his eyelids and it was all he wanted to see, just once more. But there was nothing. 

There was her sister's best friend suffering the same fate as her younger brothers; there was the knowledge that they weren't far behind. There was the way she recited the encounter to Fiona without emotion, and locked herself up in her bedroom, Monopoly set abandoned in the living room. There was the way Fiona fell apart, crying so hard she raced to the toilet to toss up the beans they had had for food yesterday. There was Ian, holding him and shaking, panicked. There was the quiet that fell over the house that night when nobody could stomach a bowl of rice. 

Lip woke up twice when Debbie shot up in her bed, screaming and sweating. Mandy climbed off the couch and into the makeshift bed on the living room floor. She curled into Iggy's side that night, wondering how much longer she would have her brothers, or if they'd lose her first. Jimmy held Fiona through the night, neither able to succumb to sleep, nor willing to discuss what was happening two doors down. Ian's medication had sedated him enough that he slept deeply, to Mickey's relief, and he sat by the window in their room.

The radio was barely audible, just hushed tones over the regular sounds of the nighttime. He had already listened to too many news accounts of the spot rot. The disease was a plague that had somehow spread over to every continent, with no known cure or universal treatment. Nobody even knew how the damn thing spread to others, but it was clearly contagious. Nearly a third of the population had already been wiped out and, as if to make sure it got rid of everyone, there were huge natural disasters all over the world... Mickey had overheard it when they were looking for a place to sleep the night their house was taken over by some junkies that knew Terry. _The end is coming,_ the people outside the Kash  & Grab had chanted before breaking into it.

"Over to you, Noel," the radio host chirped in a voice that was unconvincingly optimistic. There were undertones of distress in everybody's voices nowadays.

"Thanks, Barbara. Well, folks, good news: things are clearing up in California and Washington; the earthquakes have let up for the past two days. However, we do have reports that the next disaster will be in Illinois. We're predicting a massive hurricane and thunderstorms particularly in Chicago, starting tomorrow. Now, we can't pinpoint exactly _where_ with our limited equipment, but we ask that every person in the Chicago area stay indoors and safe for the next forty-eight hours."


	2. Savior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things only get worse...

_"You have to do it."_

_The voice comes from behind him, but he doesn't think to turn around. In fact, he can't really focus on anything except the... body- because it is just a body, to call it a person would be deranged- and the way its jaw has rotted through so severely the bone has snapped in two, mandible hanging down to rest on his chest. The decay has spread across the cheekbone, the delicate skin torn angrily to let a few yellow teeth poke through, up to just above the left eyebrow. And the left eye, which cannot blink, is shriveled up and colorless. It's sunken in deep, doesn't quite fit inside its socket anymore. The eye does not function. It is only a warning to the others: stay away._

_Mickey takes a step towards it, idly recognizing the desk Ian stole a few weeks ago (because he wanted a place for Debbie to make her art), and realizes he is in their bedroom at the Gallagher house. There's also sunshine pouring in through the window, which doesn’t make any sense. He hasn't seen the sun shine so bright, not since nearly a year ago. The blood in the open wound is mixed with a sickly yellow pus that oozes out the edges, and it all sparkles underneath the sunlight like gruesome glitter._

_There's also an indecipherable odor wafting around, and Mickey knows it is the rot, only it doesn't bother him now. He leans over, right over the motionless head, waiting patiently until the functioning eyeball rolls around its socket to look at him. "Hey," he whispers. He wants to assure it- no, him- that he hasn’t stopped caring… but his mouth refuses to produce more words. Looking down at that unlovable decomposed face, Mickey still feels everything he's ever felt for Ian, as fucked up as that may be. Honestly, his fingers still ache to reach out and run through what’s left of the dull mess of dry tangled curls on his head, to scratch at the nape of his neck so that he’ll smile like he used to. And he's just as fond now of the virtually colorless specks that decorate his skin as he once was when they were bold freckles. Freckles he'd once connected with a Sharpie, conveniently ignoring a few in order to draw a giant penis on Ian’s back, which he unknowingly walked around the house with for the rest of that day. That memory makes him want to laugh, but he holds it back, just lets the mirth shine through his gaze instead. Will Ian be able to see that with his one eye? Can Mickey truly convey the immense and perpetual love he still feels for the boy with a steady smile that doesn't falter, not even when he’s looking at that milky wasted eye?_

_A cold touch to his back pulls him out of his reverie. When he glances over his shoulder, he sees that it’s his sister Mandy. Her icy fingers run up to grab at his shoulders tightly, nails biting through his shirt and digging into his skin. It doesn’t sting, he only notices when he feels the soft tickle of blood pouring from his body. He doesn't react when she forces him over to the far wall, right by the window. He doesn’t struggle against her; in fact, her presence comforts him. He’s confused. There is no sound, but when he glances away from Ian, he notices how hard she's weeping. It's a weirdly horrific sight: the mascara running down her cheeks is dark but he notices it has a hint of red running through it. Is she crying so hard her eyes are bleeding? She walks over to the foot of the bed, dragging her feet, and then stops crying altogether. When she lifts her hands together, the barrel of the gun between them practically glimmers under the sun. Her shoulders square back and the pistol hovers directly at the head. Mickey moves his body as if to jump forward, but his body is covered in something, a heavy invisible pressure that keeps him glued to the wall. Confused, he pushes against the barrier with all his might, to no avail. The light coming through the window suddenly dims. When he tries to scream, in horror and frustration, to plead that she put the weapon down and help him, it feels like the pressure is a liquid that pours down his throat and chokes him. Panic sets deep in the pit of his stomach as the pressure begins to crush him. Mandy lets out one loud tormented sob, hovers her finger over the trigger, and just before she pulls the trigger, a voice, like Ian's but not, more of a screeching demonic sound, pierces through the near-silence, hysterically shrieking, "KILL ME!" and-_

"Fuck!" Mickey gasped, eyes snapping open to gaze into a pair of wide greenish eyes that were crinkled at the edges in worry. The panic hadn't yet left his system, and the weight of Ian's body pressing him into the mattress was not unlike the nightmarish pressure he'd just experienced, so he shoved and flailed until he was free. He sat up, eyes scanning the room suspiciously as the anxiety finally began to ebb. With a deep breath, he shook his head from side to side and sure enough, there was a throbbing ache at the base of his clammy neck that made his entire skull hurt. His eyes finally flickered over to his boyfriend, sitting bare-assed in the middle of their carpet with the most concerned expression on his face. It would've been comical if Mickey weren't so relieved just to see him looking healthy. He extended a hand to help him back up, but it went overlooked.

Ian's voice was a blue velvet, wrapping Mickey in a breathtakingly overwhelming emotion he couldn't name. "What the fuck was that? Damn near gave me a heart attack... or at least a bruise! You punched me!"

"Not like you don't deserve a good smack every once in a while," Mickey grumbled in defense, and promptly received a wadded up pair of boxers to the head in response.

"Fuck you. Tell me."

"Fuck you, hm?" Mickey taunted jovially, but Ian saw right through the charade. He knew him too well. Mickey rubbed at himself over the blanket as Ian rose to his feet. There was a method to getting the truth out of him that he knew would work, and the idea was bolstered when Mickey suddenly stopped the teasing to hold out the boxers he'd had thrown at him seconds ago. Ian ignored his offer again, and crossed his arms, quirking a brow at the other man defiantly. Mickey's dark brows furrowed in response, "The fuck are you doing?"

"I'm going to stand here and freeze to death until you tell me why I woke up with a fist to my face."

"I didn't hit your face."

"Okay," Ian conceded. He'd been going for drama, not necessarily facts. "Okay, maybe not a fist to my face, but you slapped my stomach really hard and I want to know why."

Mickey scoffed once, and tossed the blanket over his head, squeezing his eyes shut to try and go back to sleep. It took all of one minute, of Ian's puffing little breaths and the way the floorboards creaked when he hopped from foot to foot, of Mickey glaring at the space beside him that looked so wrong when it was empty, before he chucked the blanket away and growled, "I dreamt that you had the rot and were being put down, okay? And it was the worst- Oof!" He narrowly missed the pale blur that dove underneath the covers, and pressed his icy flesh against Mickey's heated skin. Numb toes shoved between his thighs, and fingers squeezed under his back. He hissed and had to take a moment to remind himself that he loved the audacious idiot beside him, and killing him was not an option. Instead, he rolled over on his side and cuddled that frigid idiot more tightly to share his body heat. When he felt Ian's shoulders rocking, felt the way his chest shook silently, pity washed over him. "Hey, I'm sorry," he whispered, though he wasn't sure for what. Blindly, he kissed down at the head buried into his neck, but his lips landed right on Ian's ear.

"Ow," Ian cried, and when he pulled his head back, Mickey found him laughing so hard there were tears welling up in his eyes. Now, Mickey's initial reaction would normally be to frantically defend himself because Ian must've been laughing at him, thought Mickey was weak for being afraid, right? _No,_ Mickey determined, looking over Ian's eyes, shut but wet at the corners from laughing, and at his open mouth, stretched so impossibly wide, so happy to be with Mickey, it hardly made sense to him. _No, he's laughing because he's happy. Because my nightmare means I worry about him._

He slid his hands, still damp from the nerves, up over his chilly back to take hold of him by the neck and pull him forward. His lips brushed against Ian's, hovered just slightly over them and his own mouth spread into a smirk. They breathed for a minute like that, just staring into each other's eyes, smiling. The world, in that minute, was beautiful to Mickey. Love wasn't foolish or painful or weak; in fact, he felt more competent, more powerful, more relaxed, more _everything_ with Ian than he'd ever been before.

"I fuckin' love you," he mouthed, before delving in with his tongue to taste. Satisfaction coursed through him when he felt the ginger quiver against him, felt his abdomen clench in excitement. One of his hands moved away from Mickey's back, having taken all the warmth it needed, and slid down his stomach deliberately. It was something that never got old, the bizarre concept that he was allowed to touch and be touched by someone as attractive as Ian Gallagher.

When Ian took hold of him, Mickey moaned in rapture and-   
BOOM!

They scurried off the bed instantly, disoriented and rattled. It took two full inspections of the room for Mickey to glimpse out the window. It was a deluge, and a sudden flash in his eyes explained the sound. The thunderstorm he'd heard about on the radio the previous night. Of course, then he understood the sound of the gunshot in his nightmare. When he turned from the gloomy scene outside, he saw Ian had already slipped into his jeans. The redhead pulled a worn sweater on over his head, and grunted, "5 AM. Gotta' make breakfast."

Sighing, Mickey watched his boyfriend walk out the door without another word. Fuck. It was so easy to forget when he was laughing with the man he loved under the covers at four in the morning- forget that there was a huge storm apparently bent on taking out what was left of civilization, forget that Veronica was dying two doors down from the same weird virus that killed their fathers and their brothers. The headache Mickey had felt when he woke up came roaring back, full-force, as if he needed anything else to dampen his mood further.

*****

When he finally padded downstairs, wearing boxers and a black sweater that was too long to be his, he wasn't expecting to see what he did. At first, all he found was the group huddled together around the couch. He recognized every head of hair, noticed Iggy and Debbie were gone, and then he heard the undeniable sound of his sister crying. He only had nightmares of that fucking noise. With that cue, he realized they were looking down at somebody, and after the brief second of relief when he made sure Ian was standing, he raced forward, pushed Jimmy aside to reveal who it was.

The world shifted beneath his feet, tilted, tried to throw him off and beat him with the sight of Debbie Gallagher and the faint marks of rotting flesh on her left arm. She glanced at him with dark wet eyes, and he could almost hear her wavering voice. Was it because of Veronica? She had held Liam all the time when he'd had it, so it couldn't possibly have been yesterday's minor contact. "I've never seen it come on so slowly," was Jimmy's attempt to console her. The young girl shrugged, muttered, "I'd like to be in bed if you guys don't mind."

Suddenly everyone was stumbling forward trying to help her up, but she reached for Ian. He was biting on his lower lip so hard Mickey knew it might bleed, but he lifted her with ease. Those years of self-motivated training were going to help in this moment, and that made it worth all the effort. Fiona kissed her cheek softly as they passed her by, had this devastated look on her face like a mother who was losing her children, but Mickey understood why the girl hadn't gone with her. Staring death in the face, the last thing she needed was to have to console somebody else about her situation. Once they'd disappeared up the stairs, Fiona let herself fall onto the couch, hunched in a tight ball of sorrow. Jimmy just observed her with this haunted look in his eyes, as if he was losing his mind helplessly watching nature take her family, one by one.

Mandy went to check on the storm, and he could tell from her crestfallen expression that she'd be hoping the damn thing killed everybody once and for all. Lip was staring at the wall, fists balled up, fingers colorless from the pressure, fighting back the tears that welled up in his eyes. It dawned on Mickey then, after noticing Ian's brother, that his own was nowhere to be found.

"Where's Iggy?" he asked out loud, but the room might as well have been empty, as he got no response- not even a glance in his direction. Everybody was thinking, grieving, praying. And it wasn't that Mickey didn't feel the same, really. He loved Debbie. His body simply wasn't reacting. It was probably shock.

He jogged back up the stairs, only hesitating halfway when he could suddenly smell the acrid stench drifting down. Fuck, how had that suddenly happened? When he reached the top floor, he could hear the hum of Ian's deep voice, and it still had this weird effect on Mickey's stomach, even when it wasn't directed at him.

Debbie was curled up in their bed, smiling up at Ian who was in the middle of a story. "And the guy told me he hated gays, so I freaked out, right?"

"The fuck are you telling her?" Mickey questioned, unflinching when he lifted the covers and slid in beside her. They both gave him looks he promptly ignored, and when she carefully leaned into him, he draped an arm over her shoulders.

Ian took a moment to let the image sink in, before responding, "Telling her what I did the day after you went to jail for being a dumbass."

"Fuck off," was said with ease, before turning a smile at Debbie. "Story's pure bullshit, Debs, don't trust a word he says. The day after I got arrested he went out and banged Ned, you know, Jimmy's dad?"

"Ew!" she laughed, and Ian rolled his eyes, taking a seat at the foot of the bed. "You guys don't even know how much presents I got."

"You sold your soul, Ian," Debbie retorted, and Mickey grinned evilly at him. He'd turned her onto his side, and now he proudly gloated. Ian scowled back at him. Before he could respond, she made an involuntary groan that had them both alert in seconds.

"Are you okay?" Mickey asked whilst Ian queried, "Does it hurt?"

She buried her face into Mickey's chest, and he glanced up to meet his boyfriend's green gaze. He looked terrified and confused, and Mickey really wanted to comfort him too. Finally, she lifted her head, red-faced and teary-eyed. "No, and yeah."

They blinked at her, and she explained, "I'm not okay. I'm dying. And yeah, it hurts. Dying hurts."

The room became deafeningly silent. Mickey looked away, embarrassed that he had even posed the question. Ian stared at her, and the depression he kept at bay with medication and conviction shone through his glazed eyes. When she noticed their discomfort, she added awkwardly, "But it's not a big deal. Actually, I'm kind of sleepy. You think it's all right if I get some shut-eye? You should go help Lip clear out the backyard in case the flood continues."

She wanted to be alone, clearly. Mickey kissed her hair before shuffling off the bed, taking Ian's hand to drag him out from where he stood, gazing at her miserably. Desperately. He wanted so badly to save her. In the stairwell, Ian pulled his hand away to wipe at the tear that slipped out involuntarily. Mickey sighed as he watched the action. "Hey, c'mon."

"I fucking hate this."

Mickey stayed silent. Of course he felt the same, but the moment felt too personal for him to speak. "I just," Ian continued, looking at nothing, probably not even speaking to Mickey anymore. "I just hate that it takes them, you know? The kids. I mean, I could do it. I could rot and I'd be able to handle it but... but how can you watch a little fucking baby accept death and not just... hate everything?"

It was a stupid question, but Mickey was concerned. He had to ask it. "D-Did you take your pills this morning?"

"Fuck off," Ian immediately responded, clearly offended that Mickey had implied that he was acting bipolar. Mickey opened his mouth to defend the query, but Ian started walking down the steps, saying, "You're a fuckin' prick, Mickey. Jesus."

Mickey watched him go, regretting the question but unsure of how to apologize.

*****

The storm lasted through the whole day. Mickey checked on Debbie regularly. Fiona kept trying to contact Kevin, and Jimmy kept comforting her when she got no response. Lip and Ian cleared the backyard of the pool and the toys they had tossed around. It wasn't flooded there, for some reason, but the grass was muddy enough that their boots were ruined. Mandy spent a lot of time with Debbie as well. She let her play with her hair and they played with makeup for a while. Iggy was alone in the foyer. He stayed there all day, wouldn't even come out to eat. Somewhere between Veronica and Debbie's impending deaths, he'd started to panic over his own fate.

Ian still wouldn't speak to Mickey properly. He'd give noncommittal one-word answers if Mickey spoke to him. God, Mickey loved the guy but he could really hold a fucking grudge. He didn't want to face his cold shoulder in the bedroom that night, so he stepped out onto the wet porch to smoke for a while.

He didn't really care that Ian was pissed off. Sure, it upset him that he'd hurt his feelings, but in reality, he was just glad Ian could feel. That Ian wasn't burdened with the weight of his own demise. The icy glare he'd give him when he finally climbed into their bed would be a blessing compared to the empty gaze Kevin had to see every night.

The sky was full of more stars than he'd ever seen, mostly because nobody had electricity in the city. In fact, if it weren't for the continuous downpour, it'd be downright beautiful. It was morbid, but his mind wandered to the thought of who might be next. If age played any factor, Ian was the youngest of the uninfected bunch. That wasn't something he wanted to think about, so he hoped it wasn't age. It couldn't be. The memory of Veronica's rotting neck, or how Terry's rot had eaten away at his scalp, was enough to placate his worries. The world was a dark one, and not just because of the lack of electricity.

He almost didn't hear the sound of the old door creaking open behind him, not with the roar of the rain pounding into the earth. Debbie stepped over, looking pale and gaunt already. The rot had already spread up her shoulder and onto the back of her neck. If it rotted at her spinal cord and she weren't laying down, her head might just snap off. He suppressed the mental image as soon as it came.

His hands extended as if to reach for her, he warned, "Don't come out here. You might slip and fall."

"It's spreading."

"The doctor will be here as soon as we reach him."

"No," she responded without hesitation. "They're not going to reach him in time to fix it."

He smashed the cigarette into the wet porch fence, and walked over to her.  
Taking her bony face in his hands, the words came as gentle reassurance. "Don't talk like that. It'll be okay."

"Do you believe in God, Mickey?"

It was too quick a change of topic. He stayed silent for a moment. Did he believe in God? Kind of. It had been engrained in him since he was a kid, this huge dude living in the clouds making sure they didn't fuck up. But he didn't like God. He didn't think God understood his circumstances, because how could stealing be a sin when he needed to eat? How could He hate gay people and make someone like Ian for him to fall in love with? "I... don't know."

"I do," these words she spoke with conviction, without a doubt in her mind. "Lip always tells me that science is the only real answer and all, but... I want to believe there's one... _really_ good thing in the world, you know?"

He didn't.

"I think the plague is a way to bring His children back to him. Like my brothers."

He didn't mean to question her, not when she was dying and making the best out of a shitty situation, but it came without thinking, "Sure hope that doesn't include my dad. Or Frank."

She shrugged, not really bothered. "Good and nice isn't always the same thing. They were mean people, but if they did two good things for every bad thing they did, it must've outweighed it in His eyes."

"Trust me, Terry wasn't doin' no good things."

"Not to you guys," she responded but left it open-ended. Considering how many people he'd brutally beaten, how many girls he'd raped, Mickey found it hard to believe that, if religion was real, Terry wasn't roasting in Hell. She turned her eyes to him, and her expression was frank, "I'm not scared of dying. I'm not scared of what will happen to me after, but I don't want... I don't want to watch Fiona cry."

His eyes searched her face for an answer, for an explanation for her little talk. She seemed shy, then, like if she was embarrassed about what she was hinting at. "Tell me."

"You could... help."

It clicked. Mickey had been in charge of Carl and Colin, because nobody else could stomach doing it. He had his family's blood on his hands, and he'd never be able to scrub it off. Doing that to Debbie, it was unfathomable. He practically scoffed at the request. Held his hands up and backed away, to the edge of the porch so the back of his head got splashed by the water that hit the railing too hard. She continued, noticing his reluctance, "It would be really quick and painless, right? Smooth overdose. I wouldn't even feel it. That's all I want, Mickey. I'm a kid, and I'm scared. I just don't want to feel it."

In that moment, Mickey understood he loved Debbie, the way a person could love a child. He loved her small face that shone with the same open look her brother had. He loved how well-spoken she was, and the way she got excited when she made him crafts. And while he'd felt something similar for Colin, her resemblance to Ian only made it that much harder. All the emotions welled up and blurred his vision. Stuffed his nose and choked him. "I can't."

"Please," she whispered, though her own voice trembled. She stepped closer, delicately wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. "You have to do it."

It was ritualistic, the way he went into the house and gathered what he needed. His breath hiccuped, sounding louder in the silence of the night. He filled his backpack up but realized he was missing one thing. Delicately, he stepped up the stairs, though the creaked at the slightest pressure. He padded into his bedroom, and the silhouette of Ian's sleeping body surprised him for some reason. It wasn't really a thought, but he stood there and watched for the rise and fall of the sheets as he breathed before going on. The syringes were in the back of his sock drawer, hidden in a sterile box. He pulled one out, still lidded, and added to the things. When he turned to leave, he was frozen into place by eyes that looked silver in the moonlight. He hadn't even heard Ian make a noise. A second later, he felt the tears soaking into his sweater. Fuck, he didn't even realize how much he'd been crying.

"Mickey? What are you doing?"

Well, what the fuck was he supposed to tell him? _I'm going to go kill your baby sister?_

"Just, uh, need to take care of something," he mumbled, and wanted to hit himself when his voice trembled. Ian had a unique full-face frown, so his eyes turned pained and his forehead scrunched in concern. "Hey, I'm sorry I got mad at you. You're so supportive, even with all this shit I've got going on, sometimes I just think you'll get tired."

He wanted it to be a good moment. They could make up, make love, sleep with tangled limbs and hearts and forget the world for a while but... Debbie was waiting for him just by the kitchen door. He didn't want to do it. He could just go downstairs, call it off, and force her back to bed.

But that would be cruel.

"Yeah, I'll be back," was all he said, and walked with less care toward the door. Ian called out once more, in that same small voice that broke the fucking heart he was barely holding together. "Are you mad?"

"Go back to sleep," he responded, shutting the door behind him as he left. He didn't need Ian following him out to watch Debbie die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took forever to upload. I always had it in my files and planned on editing it and posting it, but I got into a lot of personal problems and, well, I'm finally back. This is the complete unedited thing I came up with a very long time ago, which I wanted to go over and edit now, but I'm not in the same headspace (is that a word because auto-correct is fucking me up right now?). I don't know if I'll finish this, anyway, but in case anybody wanted to see what happened next, lol, here it is. There was more to this, with actual descriptions of Mickey doing everything and all that, but it gets a little too depressing and I can't handle that shit at the moment. Anyway, let me know what you think!
> 
> find me at lostyourwar.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> look, pals. it's not a one-word title. it's also a multi-chapter, depending on if anybody actually wants more of this angst. i haven't done anything like this before so i hope you guys like it!
> 
> *****  
> be my friend @ lostyourwar.tumblr.com


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